


Anyone

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Series 4, Withdrawal, i haz a sad, medically accurate fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:55:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9805616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: This ficlet fills Prompt #1 on the Sherlock Kink Meme on tumblr, which requested fic showing Sherlock recovering (from an injury, etc) in a medically accurate way, no "Suprise! All better!" hand-waving.This is a missing scene that takes place near the end of The Lying Detective. Lightly Johnlock, but can be read as Gen as well.Sherlock and John deal with the ramifications of the recent past on John's mind and Sherlock's body.





	

“I’m _that_ predictable?” John glanced at Sherlock, then over to Culverton Smith, who was still performing righteous outrage.

“No…I’m just a cock…” Sherlock sighed as he allowed himself to fall back against the pillow, his latest denouement complete, the villain entrapped.

John considered the recording device in his hand, then turned to the ridiculous man reclining in the hospital bed. Although that striking face was bruised and those long-fingered hands were wrapped around the ribcage to prevent battered muscle and bone from moving, the bastard still managed to look beautiful and proud behind his slight smile.

Without warning, John’s mind flashed back to a year to the overdose on Mycroft’s chartered plane. That memory was no less painful or harrowing than any he had forged on the front lines in Afghanistan. The list of substances Sherlock had willingly injected into his body scrolled like a news ticker across the army doctor’s consciousness: cocaine, heroin cut with Phenobarbital, MDMA…ketamine, for Christ’s sake. _Ridiculous_ didn’t cover the half of it.

There hadn’t been enough of any single illicit substance to cause an overdose, but combined… _Jesus_. It was enough to sedate Richard Branson and launch him into low earth orbit all at once. And now…all the signs of a similar cocktail were present. The detective was in for a long night of combined withdrawal.

Slowly, the room began to clear. The clump of detectives exited first, followed by a handcuffed, resigned Smith and Lestrade, carrying the bugged cane with his right hand, his left hand resting as lightly as possible on Smith’s shoulder. John honestly couldn’t judge him for the light-as-air touch. Culverton had a profound ickyness oozing from his pores.

Nurse Cornish looked upon Sherlock one last time, a doting mother hen, then implored John to “Take care of him, now.” (And there was another throwback to the last episode, when John had seen Mycroft laid bare with worry for his baby brother). John nodded gravely and watched as she backed out of the room, firmly shutting the door.

John fell into the chair at the right-hand side of Sherlock’s bed, rubbed a hand over weary eyes, and let himself deflate, stale adrenaline barely propelling blood through his veins at this point.

He glanced over at Sherlock, whose dark hair was a mat of stale sweat and tangled curls. The detective seemed to be dozing lightly, with scattered shivers and muscle jerks that were followed by soft, breathy moans. A small dribble of snot fell from his left nostril and John sighed, grabbing a tissue to wipe it away. As he approached his friend’s face, however, Sherlock let out a loud moan and curled over his midsection, the gurgling there rising to a cacophonous volume.

“Jooooohn,” Sherlock moaned, leaning toward the man in question. John stood abruptly and darted looks around the room, praying for the appearance of an emesis bucket. When he saw none, he lunged for the small bedside trashcan, banging his shin on the chair leg and his head on the raised bedrail. But he made it back to Sherlock’s side with a huff of relief, positioning the vessel just in time.

Heaves wracked that skinny, sweating body, and a small amount of stringy mucus dripped from Sherlock’s mouth, which twisted open in a pained expression. At the end of the string was a bit of brown tint—which John hoped was tea from earlier and not a sign of half-digested blood from an esophageal tear.

Sherlock leaned back again, then grimaced, seeming to immediately regret the movement. He ratcheted forward to heave again…three, four, five times, but no stomach contents were forthcoming. The detective looked at his former blogger from beneath lashes laced with tears, his eyes absolutely pathetic with dreadful sorrow.

“Please, John. Come home. I need you more than anyone.”

*****

Over the next 24 hours, John looked on, helpless as his friend struggled to pull himself back from the twilight land of intoxication and withdrawal. He noted, cataloged, and stored in the darkest parts of his brain every flicker of discomfort crossing Sherlock’s face. John knew that the pain from withdrawal would magnify and augment the trauma that he himself, in a utter fuck-up of anger and grief, had inflicted.

It had happened once before, in Afghanistan. _Doctor John Watson_ had snapped, pummeling a wall of sandbags, tearing the canvas and bloodying his knuckles in an impotent display of his frustration at being unable to save yet another patient.

After that outburst, John had closed the door on his difficult emotions, spinning the heavy-duty lock and propping the door closed with a case of scotch. He had become the efficient, inwardly focused person who recklessly put himself in harm’s way and ended up getting shot, his invalid status cutting off the only outlet for his hopelessness until he met the remarkable man who was currently glistening with sweat and speckled with goose-flesh.

But above and beyond the bruising, the twinges of pain with every breath, twist of the torso, or movement of eyes beneath a brow swollen from John’s blows, the doctor knew that Sherlock was experiencing the cramping, wrenching, never-quite-comfortable ache of withdrawal. The spasms and unheeded contractions of injured muscles played in twinges across the detective’s face, never allowing him the restorative sleep he needed.

To make matters worse, the choice of pain relieving medication was extremely limited. Obviously, the use of opioids had to be minimized in an IV drug user. Sherlock’s cocaine-induced kidney failure made ibuprofen and toradol inadvisable, and the damage to his liver from high doses of dextromethorpan and ketamine took paracetamol right out of the equation.

What remained was time, and saline. And the body’s slow work to remove the offending chemicals from the detective’s blood. The medical team examined Sherlock every shift, tutting as Britain’s most famous detective stumbled through the neuro checks and winced as penlights shined in his eyes. They nodded slowly, pleased as the tremors subsided and Sherlock’s opiate withdrawal score decreased along with the doses of clonidine.

The suffering remained, as well. Sherlock was tormented by wracking shivers, paroxysmal stomach cramps, and embarrassing eruptions from either side of the gastrointestinal tract that inevitably ended with the briefest of eye contact, John’s eyes telegraphing,  “I’m sorry;”  Sherlock’s resigned and penitent, softly sighing, “It is what it is.”

After keeping watch in the uncomfortable bedside chair for two nights, John heard the news he was waiting for: Sherlock’s creatinine was back to baseline, the symptoms of his withdrawal had stabilized, and the plan was to discharge him home today. Sherlock Holmes was free to return to 221 Baker Street, but only if he had someone to help him avoid relapse.

As the treatment team turned toward John, he felt his phone buzzing in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Excuse me.” He stepped away to read the text. “Shit. Rosie.”

 John _had_ planned to collect his daughter after work two days ago, on THAT day. The day of Mrs. Hudson’s Aston Martin, Culverton Smith’s creepy cereal commercial, and John’s sudden plunge back into the hurricane that was life alongside Sherlock Holmes.

His best friend looked at him, understanding dawning, and pinched his full lips into a thin, sad smile, and nodded.

“Go get her, John. Be a responsible father. Do it for Mary. Do it for _me_.”

John nodded slowly, swallowing, and sent a brief text to Sherlock’s makeshift family: Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and…yes, Mycroft Holmes.

That done, John walked back to Sherlock’s side and reached to skim his fingers over the butterfly bandage over his left eyebrow, whispering, “You won’t have to do this alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a doctor who treats opiate addiction, so...I didn't pull any punches. It's not pretty, it's not romantic, and it sucks balls to come off of any drugs, but opioids (oxycodone/hydrocodone/heroin/morphine) specifically. If you have any questions, feel free to post them here or come over to sweeter-than-cynicism on tumblr.


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